


Lucky That I Love a Foreign Land

by the_ragnarok



Series: Happy Endings [12]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Bondage, M/M, Porn Watching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-02
Updated: 2011-03-02
Packaged: 2017-10-16 01:37:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/167029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Arthur is bored and Eames distracts him with porn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lucky That I Love a Foreign Land

Eames is fond of warm climes. Part of this is in defiance of his upbringing, part is from a fondness for lighter fabrics and the temperatures that allow them. Right now, he's gaining entirely new levels of appreciation for them, in the form of Arthur in shorts and nothing else, sprawled across the bed with his arms crossed behind his head.

However, Arthur's foot is jumping in a most unpromising manner. Eames puts a hand on it to make it still, but that only makes Arthur raise an eyebrow in irritation.

"You can't possibly be bored already," Eames says, exasperated. Honestly, some days it feels like there's no pleasing Arthur. An interesting vacation leaves him bitching about getting shot at, a boring one leaves him dissatisfied and, well, bored. Eames doesn't know what to do with him, really he doesn't.

"I'm not bored," Arthur says, but the longing looks he's sneaking at his laptop say otherwise. Eames removed the bloody thing's battery a few hours ago, since that seemed like the only way to make Arthur stop working for a day. It doesn't seem to be working as planned.

Might as well give in to the inevitable. Eames sighs. "All right," he says. "You may have your computer back, on one condition."

"I don't need to fulfill any of your conditions," Arthur says. "It's my laptop. I can turn it on whenever I want."

Eames straddles Arthur. "Or you could turn me on instead," he says, mostly to make Arthur roll his eyes. Eames bends down to kiss Arthur's forehead. "Oh, come on," he says. "It's not a bad condition. You'll like it."

"Then why are you blackmailing me into trying it?" Arthur's hips buck lazily upwards in utter contradiction of the boredom in his voice. "By denying me use of my computer, no less."

"How truly reprehensible of me," Eames says, sliding his hands slowly up Arthur's naked chest, thumbing his nipples to make them stand up, taking one in his mouth to gently bite. "But really," he says, licking the nipple once more before rolling off Arthur. "At least hear me out."

"Fine. I'm listening." Arthur's grouchy manner would have been more effective if it weren't for the obvious bulge in his shorts. Eames, who does not believe in self deprivation, bends to rub his cheek against it before going to fetch the laptop.

He re-places the battery and plugs it in before asking Arthur, "Where do you keep your porn, darling?"

Arthur blinks at Eames, as if what Eames just said was an utterly foreign concept to him. "I don't."

Eames looks at him in pure astonishment. "You don't have porn?"

Arthur snorts. "I don't save porn. I have XTube. Look it up."

Eames (who knows what XTube is and fuck you very much, Arthur) grimaces at this lapse in Arthur's ordinarily excellent taste. "You can't possibly get off to something that plebeian," he says. "Surely you have something of quality saved here."

"I have a copy of _The Beauty of Kinbaku_ ," Arthur says, "but I left it at the Paris apartment." Eames can't tell if he's being facetious or not.

Very well. Eames would have to supply his own materials, then. Good thing he never goes unprepared. As soon as Arthur's computer has booted up, Eames plugs in his memory stick. Not the ordinary black one, that he uses for work, but the silver one, which is meant for leisurely activities.

And of course Arthur's reaction to this is an incredulous, "You have four gigabytes of porn on your person?"

"Variety is important," Eames says, peevish at having to explain this self-evident truth to Arthur. "You wouldn't want me to get bored on all those lonely nights when you're away, hm?"

"Maybe you could stand to be a _little_ bored," Arthur says, slightly sulky in the way he would never allow himself to be in public. "Maybe I want you to pine every now and then."

Eames grins. "You could always leave me a little something to remember you by." Mmm, now there's a thought. Unlikely he'll be able to talk Arthur into making a sex-tape, though. Far too risky for them both.

Well, maybe if they encrypted it _extraordinarily_ well...

Eames is snapped out of this eminently pleasant line of thought by the crude interference of Arthur's finger poking him in the stomach. Hard. "Are you going to make me watch porn?" Arthur says.

"Make you," Eames says disdainfully. "Yes, I'm sure watching hot, steamy sex with the man you regularly _have_ hot, steamy sex with is a terrible hardship."

"We could just have sex," Arthur says, and moves against Eames in a way that makes it blatantly obvious just how easy that option would be.

There are very few things Eames prioritizes over sex. After such necessities as _not getting stabbed_ and _keeping Arthur happy_ , the first of these is _better sex, within a reasonable time limit_. Therefore Eames remains steadfast and picks a video clip practically at random.

Oh, he likes this one – the first scene is a close-up of a man on his knees, mouth open and eyes closed, a streak of come from someone off-camera pulsing onto his lips. The man licks them in complete apparent satisfaction.

"I don't know," Arthur says. "I'm kind of distracted by the mustache."

Eames shoots him a quelling look, but he pauses the video and searches for something else that might be more suitable to Arthur's tastes. The next thing he alights on is from his vintage collection. He selects the thumbnail and looks at Arthur.

Arthur looks skeptical. "What is this, from the seventies?"

"An excellent decade for porn," Eames says reprovingly.

Arthur gives Eames the look that Eames has come to interpret as meaning, _You've finally lost what was left of your mind, haven't you_. But to Eames' surprise, Arthur shifts to lean against him and says, "Okay. But if there's anything about disco in there, I'm leaving."

"Don't knock disco," Eames says, mostly for the principle of the thing. "And don't mock the picture quality, either," he says when Arthur next opens his mouth. "For one hour, do me a personal favor and suppress your inner hipster."

"I wasn't going to complain about the picture," Arthur says. Eames stares at him until he wilts and says, "It's the sound that's crappy."

"Arthur," Eames says, "this is porn, not Mozart. Trust me, you're not missing anything important."After that, Arthur thankfully quiets down, and Eames can concentrate on what he's seeing and – more importantly – on Arthur's reaction to it.

Eames likes these older movies, likes that the actors look like people he'd fucked in his day, real and living and not photoshopped within an inch of their lives. That the cocks are in a multitude of sizes and shapes and colors, that the people are hairy and sometimes have a little belly to go with their bulging biceps. Possibly this is Eames' narcissism talking, but he likes looking at the screen and thinking, _This could be me_.

Even better is watching Arthur react to it. Arthur licks his lips unconsciously, looking at the screen, over and over until Eames can't stand it and has to kiss Arthur until he runs out of air.

When he pulls back, Arthur blinks at him and licks his lips again, this time with obvious deliberation.

"Oh, darling," Eames murmurs, rubbing the soft skin just below Arthur's ear. "Would you like it if I fucked your mouth a little?"

"If you want to," Arthur says, ever generous, but it's not Arthur's generosity that Eames is after. Eames loves many things, can get off on practically every kink under the sun, but when it comes to it the one thing he wants, what reliably gets him off when he's lying alone in cold hotel rooms, is Arthur's pleasure. Arthur asking for more.

"Hmm," Eames says, thoughtfully, and pounces. Arthur's on his back, now, Eames lying on top of him. Eames pushes the laptop away to safety with one hand and pins down Arthur's wrists with the other.

Arthur's mouth moves into a slow, wide grin. "Yeah?" He jerks his arms hard, testing Eames' grip, but Eames knows how to do this. Arthur isn't going anywhere.

Eames bites down on the soft place where Arthur's neck meets his shoulder, licking at the teethmarks he made and biting again. Arthur squirms under him, pushing up into the pressure of Eames' mouth and making breathy little sighs that Eames definitely wants to encourage.

However, he has a feeling he's going to want both his hands for this, so he lets go of Arthur, who chokes off a disappointed little noise. "Just a minute, darling," Eames says, distracted, as he roots through his travel bag – he could've sworn it was in there... Ah, there it is. Eames pulls out the coil of ribbon and shows it to Arthur with an inquiring look.

Arthur bursts into laughter. "Somebody's prepared." He takes the coil, rubbing two fingers over the smooth surface. "Wow. What, is it our anniversary and I forgot?"

Eames makes a face. "Not that I know." He has no idea when their anniversary is, to tell the truth. By the time it occurred to him that it could be of importance it was lost in the mist of his memory, buried somewhere under too many recollections of high-speed chases and scorching sex.

To this very day, Eames suspects that Arthur does remember the exact date, and refuses to tell Eames what it is out of sheer spite.

Arthur's smile is a soft, fond thing that Eames can't help but kiss. When Eames lets go, Arthur lies back, wrists helpfully crossed above his head. This is tempting, surely, but it's the way they do it almost every time Arthur wants to be tied and Eames feels like changing things up a little. He moves Arthur's hands, then thinks better of it and motions Arthur to sit up.

He wants Arthur on his back, which means tying his hands behind it could get uncomfortable. He ties them by Arthur's sides instead, a little looser than Arthur generally likes. To the face Arthur makes at him, Eames says, "I want you to be able to speak for once," amused.

"Fuck you," Arthur says, scowling and flushing. "I can talk when you tie me up."

"Yes, but scintillating as your three-word vocabulary of _Fuck_ , _Eames_ and _Yes_ is," Eames says, winding the ribbon around Arthur and tying a little bow to rest just under his navel. "I'd like you to be slightly more coherent today." He pushes Arthur to stand up and peels the shorts off him, planting a kiss just above the cleft of Arthur's arse before sitting him back down on the bed.

"Look, if you want a philosophical discussion, maybe you should save it for the afterglow." Arthur squirms within the ribbon, obviously displeased. "What the fuck is this? I can get out of this without even trying."

"Yes," Eames says, ever patient. "But why would you want to try?"

Arthur laughs. "Okay, you have a point. How do you want me?"

"In every conceivable way," Eames says. "But for now it would be most productive if you lay on your back." As Arthur does, Eames grasps his ankle, lifting Arthur's leg. It's heavier than one would expect, dense muscle and strong bones underneath pale skin. Eames kisses Arthur's calve, bending forward to lick at the back of his knee. "Up," he says, moving the leg to show Arthur the desired direction.

Arthur lifts it until it stands at a right angle to his body. "More?"

Eames swallows, because of course Arthur can do more comfortably, Arthur moves like one of those bendy toys Eames had as a child. Push him into shape, and he'll stay there for as long as he likes. Eames pushes Arthur's leg further, watching for any sign of discomfort. Arthur doesn't show any, and Eames has already pushed his leg as far as he dares; Arthur's ankle is mere centimeters away from his ear.

"Can you stay like this?" Eames says. He smooths a hand down the straight line of it, marveling at how it's not shaking at all.

"I'll start twitching in about ten minutes if I have to hold it up myself." Arthur doesn't look the least bit inconvenienced.

He also no longer looks bored. There's a contented look to him, a hint of the dreaminess that normally creeps into his expression at being restrained. Eames smiles slowly. "Really. Would you like some help with that?"

"What did you have in mind." And there it is, the tone Arthur gets when he's like this, already too wrapped up in the feeling to modulate what he says as a proper question.

Instead of answering, Eames takes another length of ribbon and ties Arthur's ankle to the bedpost. There's no art to it, just a simple 'and stay there' kind of knot, but Arthur doesn't seem to mind in the least. His eyes are sliding half-closed already, despite the loose nature of the bonds constraining him. As Eames watches, Arthur's leg twitches closer to his body before returning to where Eames put it.

"Is that so," Eames says, fascinated. Arthur's never been shy about exploiting Eames' enjoyment of his flexibility, but Eames has never seen him take such pleasure in it himself. This definitely requires further looking into.

Later, though, because if Eames spends one more second without touching Arthur, he may perish of wanting.

Eames takes a long moment to explore the soft inner side of Arthur's thigh, the back of it, sparse hair wiry against his lips and tongue, muscle unforgiving against the light pressure of his teeth. Eames has a special fondness for Arthur's legs, their strength and agility even more than their (not inconsiderable) shapeliness. They're so right for Arthur, who turned survival into an art form long before Eames first met him.

Arthur normally grows impatient if Eames carries this on for more than a minute or two, but now he's lost in his own mind, immersed in the comfort he takes in this state, so Eames can continue for as long as he likes. He thought he might ask Arthur to talk, make Eames come all over him with nothing but his voice and the sight of him to set Eames off, but he believes that all plans need a measure of flexibility.

So he takes his time, learning Arthur's entire lower body by heart, mapping it by taste and scent and texture. Arthur's cock is hard, leaking, and Eames keeps it for later because Arthur requires a gentler touch after he comes than Eames wants to give at the moment.

Arthur's arse, though, that's another question. Eames rubs a finger across his hole, and Arthur leans into it awkwardly, trying to use leverage he doesn't have. Eames bends forward to lick him then, going slow and sure, waiting for Arthur's body to relax as it does best, in small, steady increments. Arthur has a tendency to rush through this part, to snap at Eames until he fucks him even when he's only half-ready.

Eames loves to do it properly, though, loves that Arthur's body needs so much patience and care, so finicky about this one particular act. Loves to feel Arthur flicker open around his tongue and stay that way, loves the smoothness of him inside, the tight pressure Arthur can't help exert.

The noises Arthur makes when he does this aren't exactly unappealing, either.

Eames doesn't know how long he takes doing it – until the sounds Arthur makes turn urgent, until his jaw grows sore, until it occurs to him that if he draws it out for another moment he'll end up coming in his trousers, and that would be a shameful waste of such a beautifully bound Arthur.

The way Arthur says his name as he steps away is enough to break a lesser man's heart. "A moment, darling," Eames says, hastily shedding his trousers and grabbing for the slick. The advantage of preparing Arthur this way is that he hardly needs to take any time now. It's not that he doesn't like to, it's just that he needs to come within the next five minutes or die, and he'd rather do that inside Arthur.

Arthur's very nearly gone now, moments away from climax, so all Eames has to do is angle himself correctly when he fucks into him (slow, even after all these years Arthur needs it to be slow) and push. Arthur's squirming now, straining against the ribbon, trying to open himself wider when he's already so open, impossibly, spread out for Eames' pleasure, and such a pleasure it is.

It takes next to nothing – a few thrusts, a hand around Arthur's cock, and Arthur's crying out and twisting so hard that Eames' lazy knots unravel. Then Arthur's hands are free and he holds on to Eames' shoulders, which will likely be sporting fingertip-shaped bruises tomorrow, and _oh_ , that's it, that's the last coherent thought Eames is capable of for the next hour.

By the time Eames regains the ability to speak, Arthur is – predictably – snoring. Eames has to wrestle him into a position where he can untie him, easing Arthur's leg down carefully, rubbing to make sure Arthur doesn't pull a muscle or something similarly unpleasant. Then he cleans them up, because if Arthur wakes up covered in dried come it will be Eames bearing the brunt of his wrath.

Then he opens Arthur's laptop again, and grins as he opens the browser. Perhaps it's time to collect some things that Arthur may enjoy. As a token of his affections.

But Arthur makes a strange growling noise in his sleep that seems to mean _Touch my laptop and die painfully_ , so Eames must put it aside and cuddle with Arthur instead. Really, the lengths he goes to for that man. So torturous.


End file.
